


Who Lives Forever Anyway?

by HopeStoryteller



Category: Good Omens (TV), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: (sort of), (surprisingly), Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Carlos and Cecil are Dorks, Cecil is Described (Welcome to Night Vale), Cecilos is background if you can call it background when Cecil gushes about Carlos this long, Crossover, Crowley is Cecil's Traveling Partner, Fix-It of Sorts, I had way too much fun with the Erikas, M/M, Saving Old Woman Josie: The Fic, Spoilers, Title from a Queen Song, and y'know all of this, it'll make sense if you know both of the fandoms fairly well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-08 08:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeStoryteller/pseuds/HopeStoryteller
Summary: "Crowley," Aziraphale says, "it's me. How do you feel about going to America?"A friend of a particular group of angels is dying. Erika makes a call. Aziraphale answers it. Crowley winds up along for the ride. Cecil... helps. I couldn't resist writing a crossover and I'm still sad about a particular character dying.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Carlos/Cecil Palmer
Comments: 89
Kudos: 172
Collections: Clever Crossovers & Fantastic Fusions, Crossover Favorites





	1. A. Z. Fell & Co

It is dark in Soho, although the lights in a particular bookshop remain on, and the proprietor remains on the phone. An observer would see a fairly normal if slightly old-fashioned man on the phone, and might think that perhaps he’s a little older than he looks.

Really, he’s a lot older than he looks, he’s not a man, and he’s currently on the phone with an old friend. Or several, depending on how you look at the matter.

“Right,” the being who isn’t a man says, nodding to himself. “I’ll do my best. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to do, really, but I’ll try. You said her name was…?”

The individual nods to himself, and begins to write something down on a notepad. “Josefina Ortiz,” he says aloud. “Are you, ah, certain you don’t want to intercede with head office on her behalf instead?”

He listens for a moment, and sighs in resignation. 

“Erika,” he says, although perhaps a more accurate word would be pleaded. “You do realize that this likely won’t do any good? Can’t you perform a miracle of your own?”

More listening. 

The man-shaped being’s face takes on a sympathetic look, and he says, “Ah. Well. I… would really prefer not dealing with head office at the moment, not that I don’t  _ like _ talking to them of course! But, how about I pay you a visit, and see what I can do, and if I can’t do anything, we’ll ask them together?”

After a few, tense moments, he nods to himself, and continues writing. “Night… Vale,” he says. “In America. I should be able to get there within the week—”

He visibly pales.

“Oh,” he says. And then softer, again, “Oh. Oh  _ dear. _ I don’t believe I can… I’m very sorry, Erika, and—oh! Hello, Erika. And Erika. Yes. Hello there. I really am very sorry. There is simply no way I can make it there in time, and even if I could, she may already be too far gone.”

He’s not being entirely truthful. There…  _ is _ a way, but he would have to be very careful, and he would also need to get Crowley’s assistance. Which… 

He’s a demon, of course he wouldn’t help. But he’s  _ Crowley. _ So maybe, just maybe, he would.

“Erika,” he says, this time with some resolve in his voice, “I will call you… right back. I need to check on something.”

He hangs up, and dials the one number he has memorized.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “it’s me. How do you feel about going to America?”


	2. Somewhere in the Southwestern US

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I… am glad you’re here,” Aziraphale admits._
> 
> __
> 
> __
> 
> _“Yeah, yeah, right. If you call me a good person I’m going to throw up. On you. My car doesn’t deserve to be sullied by the contents of my stomach.”_

“Angel,” a man-shaped demon mumbles into his steering wheel, “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

His more angelic counterpart decides not to mention that he’d done very little actual talking into and more talking in general. He’d barely begun to explain the situation when Crowley showed up at the door.

He really will never get used to Crowley’s newfangled… car phone.

“I… am glad you’re here,” Aziraphale admits.

“Yeah, yeah, right. If you call me a good person I’m going to throw up. On you. My car doesn’t deserve to be sullied by the contents of my stomach.”

Aziraphale, who certainly wasn’t going to do that at all, clears his throat awkwardly and looks out the window. “Are you going to drive, or…?”

“Obviously. Just tired from, I dunno,  _ teleporting my car across an ocean. _ ”

“We could have rented one!”

Crowley snorts his displeasure with the idea of that statement. He pats the steering wheel appreciatively.

“You’re the only car for me,” he tells it, and Aziraphale swears the car grows warmer. Cozier.

As Crowley pulls out of the airport parking lot, breezing past the payment booth without so much as a backwards glance, a song begins to play. One Aziraphale doesn’t recognize, but Crowley apparently does, so either bebop or Queen.

“So,” Crowley asks as the instrumental fades in, “where are we going?”

“Night Vale,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley chokes on air, leans forward in his seat. Aziraphale reaches over in an attempt to hit his back, but Crowley beats him to it, snapping his fingers and taking a deep breath.

“Night Vale,” Crowley repeats. “Night Vale.”

He taps a finger on the steering wheel. On the radio, Freddie Mercury begins to sing a surprisingly poignant song. Queen it is, then, but that doesn’t explain Crowley’s… strange reaction.

“Yes. I thought I already told you where we were going?”

“Must’ve forgotten.” Crowley takes the on-ramp for the highway, speeds up a disturbingly large amount in a disturbingly small amount of time, and says, “You mean you don’t know?”

“Of course I do.”

Aziraphale did not, in fact, know what Crowley was referring to. But he hated not knowing things, so for the sake of keeping up appearances he was going to act like he did. 

(Crowley, for his part, was well aware that Aziraphale didn’t know and was amused enough by this fact not to call attention to it.)

“Well,” Crowley says after a moment, “I’ve never actually been able to find it, even when I was spending time over here. So I hope your friends gave you directions, because otherwise…”

Aziraphale tries not to wince. He did not, in fact, receive directions beyond ‘southwestern US’ and ‘Route 800’ and ‘she lives on the edge of town out near the car lot and Larry Leroy.’

“Can you call a number on your…” He motions to the air. “Car-phone?”

Crowley sighs. “What’s the number?”

“Who wants to live forever?” Freddie Mercury asks, in a more melancholy song than Queen usually is. 

Neither angel nor demon look at each other. Aziraphale because he is looking for the sheet of paper he had written the number Erika was using on, and Crowley because he is, for once, looking at the road. 

Abruptly, and strangely, the song cuts out, and all eyes go to the radio.

“Who wants to live forever? Presumably, we will find out when they outlive us,” says an unfamiliar, deep voice. “Welcome to Night Vale.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale.

“Oh,” says Crowley.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale again. And then, “Were we in a desert five minutes ago?”

Crowley doesn’t answer, partially because he isn’t sure himself. He isn’t even entirely sure what airport they had flown into, and while he’s on the subject, he can barely recollect the plane trip.

“To start off today’s broadcast,” the man on the radio says, “my prayers, and those of my family, and I am  _ quite certain _ those of the rest of our little town, go to Old Woman Josie and her friends the a—the  _ beings that call themselves angels and legally do not exist _ . I have been informed by Alondra Ortiz via a message tinged with grief, rage, and a hint of eggplant left in my voicemail this morning that she does not have long now, and the nonexistent beings that, if they did, would call themselves angels left a similar message.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Crowley looks at Aziraphale.

“I’ll drop you off with your friends,” Crowley says, if tersely. “Then I have something of my own to investigate.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says. “They’re… more affiliates than friends, really, and they—”

Crowley holds up a hand. Aziraphale stops talking as he slows the car to a stop, then rolls down the window.

“Hey, you there,” he calls to someone who appears to be a boy scout. “Which way to Old Woman Josie’s house?”

The boy scout looks at Crowley. Crowley looks at the boy scout.

“You can  _ see me?” _ The boy scout asks. Come to think of it, something about him is a little strange. Might be invisible to mortals or somesuch.

“Course not,” Crowley lies. “Heard you walking down the sidewalk, assumed there was someone here, assumed correctly. Listen, which way is Old Woman Josie’s house?”

The invisible scout points, then seems to remember that Crowley can’t see him. “Take this street down until you reach Harrison, then turn left, and keep going. It’s right next to the car lot.”

“Right,” Crowley says, rolls the window back up, and speeds off.

“You could have said thank you,” Aziraphale says.

“You could have said there were more of your people involved,” Crowley replies. “I’ll drop you off, and that’s it. Find your own way home.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale tries. If Crowley had looked at him, he would have seen that the angel looked genuinely miserable. Of course, if the angel had seen the demon looking at him, he would have quickly schooled his expression into a much less incriminating one. 

However, Crowley doesn’t look. So all of this speculation is moot.

Instead, he says, “We’re here. Out.”

“I  _ am _ sorry, really.”

But he gets out, and Crowley speeds off, back through the town of Night Vale. There had been a time he would have given nearly anything to get here. And now he’s here, because of Aziraphale, and he can’t even properly appreciate it, also because of Aziraphale being… Aziraphale. Satan fucking dammit.

“And now,” the radio announcer says, “traffic. There is a man-shaped being driving an old black car.”

“Vintage,” Crowley mumbles under his breath, before he realizes that 1) he just responded to the man on the radio, and 2) the man on the radio is apparently talking about him.

“The man-shaped being is looking for something. He will turn right onto Main Street, and left onto Bloodstone. He will continue on Bloodstone for a mile before turning into a parking lot of a building on his right, with an aura he can feel in his soul. He will park, and enter, and ask for a man named Cecil at the front desk. And perhaps he will find the answers he seeks. He will also be traveling well over the speed limit, so maybe avoid Harrison, Main, and Bloodstone for the next few minutes.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, but turns right onto Main Street, and makes no move to slow down.

“This,” Cecil says, “has been traffic.”


	3. The Home of Josefina Ortiz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“She made eggplant parmigiana without us! There wasn’t enough salt!”_
> 
> __
> 
> __
> 
> _“And,” Aziraphale concludes, “you’re out of miracles.”_

In a home on the edge of town, a dying woman rests, her daughter at her side. Outside, several angels named Erika are gathered on the front porch, talking softly among themselves. Another angel, this one not named Erika, walks up the steps and joins them.

“Hello, Erika,” Aziraphale says, and is greeted by a chorus of muted hellos, heys, and good-to-see-yous back. He  _ did _ miss Erika. “What are you doing outside?”

Erika steps forward, grins uneasily. Aziraphale notes, with some interest, that she’s unfamiliar to him and come to think of it, so is Erika over there. Although in all fairness, he’s been trying not to think too hard about the fact that Erika over there is completely nude save for a hand-tailored waistcoat. He’ll have to greet the newest members properly later.

“Josie’s…  _ daughter _ —” (Erika says the word much the same way Aziraphale might say  _ Gabriel _ or  _ Michael _ , which is to say with thinly veiled distaste and expertly hidden fear.) “—claims not to believe in us.”

“But,” Erika with the suit coat and no sense of decency adds, “that did not stop her from asking us to get some eggplant from the Ralph’s.”

“She locked all the doors after we left,” Erika mutters, dark-skinned and looking considerably more morose than Aziraphale has ever seen any of them before, especially not him in particular.

Erika nods in agreement, as do Erika and Erika, and they and more start to chime in with their own indignant responses. Erika waves a particularly plump eggplant.

“The eggplant’s going to go bad!”

“She already had eggplant!”

“She made eggplant parmigiana without us! There wasn’t enough salt!”

“And,” Aziraphale concludes, “you’re out of miracles.”

More nods and uneasy smiles. Aziraphale sighs, and thinks on this for a moment. This, at least, has been something they have always been able to commiserate over. Aziraphale got reprimanded over frivolous miracles approximately once. Due to technically being counted as a single angel, yet in practice being both that and very much not that, Erika is… a lot worse when it comes to managing miracle use.

Erika, out of all the angels, might be the most likely to understand. Or at the very least, the least likely to smite him on the spot. Not that there’s anything to understand, of course. He and Crowley simply have an Arrangement, capital A, that is convenient for both of them. That’s it. 

They’re not friends.

They might be friends. They might be more than friends, but Aziraphale is currently very unwilling to acknowledge either of those things and will remain unwilling for another two years at the very least.

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, and snaps his fingers. “Stand back from the door.”

The door opens almost immediately, and a middle-aged, very tired looking woman rushes out, gets into her car, and drives off. At least three Erikas turn to watch her go.

“What did you do?” Erika asks, genuinely curious-sounding. She’s one of the new ones, wearing leggings and a bright red t-shirt with NVCR on the front. There’s also a name badge pinned to the front, but whatever name used to be there was scrawled out and replaced with ‘Erika.’

“Oh, nothing much. I simply ensured she remembered something she needed to do that would make her stay away for the next hour. Hardly a miracle, really.” He gestures to the door, and says, “Shall we?”


	4. Night Vale Community Radio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How are you these days?” Crowley asks. “New job?”_
> 
> _Cecil grins. “Well, it’s not new exactly, I took over for Leonard about…”_
> 
> _He hesitates, and his grin visibly lessens._

Cecil is a man who is not tall and not short. He has long white hair, caramel-colored skin, and dark eyes that aren’t quite black but aren’t quite light enough to be described as another color.

He also seems oddly familiar, and Crowley doesn’t know where from. Not until Cecil’s eyes light up at the sight of him and he says, “Oh! It’s _ you. _”

Crowley blinks, confused. Eventually he mutters, “What?”

In all fairness, he hasn’t met very many people with white hair. Especially not very many people with white hair who weren’t also at an advanced age, and weren’t a certain angel he’s trying very hard not to think about right now. And anyway, the hair of said person he’s trying very hard not to think about would be better described as a very light platinum blond.

Cecil’s hair is a stark white, and he doesn’t appear particularly old. And yes, he certainly does sound familiar, and he doesn’t sound pissed which is good because he’s heard those three words right before a good deal of uncomfortable situations ranging from embarrassing to legitimately perilous. 

But _ where _ would he know him from?

“Don’t you remember? Svitz? I always wondered what happened to you, I actually talked about my trip to Europe on the show not too long ago, and _ oh! _ Right! I am in charge here now! Things really do change. I can’t say I ever expected to see you again, especially not here in Night Vale. How have you been?”

Oh, _ fuck _ . Crowley does remember him. He remembers some time spent in Svitz with an enthusiastic young man with white hair and a surprisingly deep voice, just out of college and backpacking throughout Europe. A… _ lot _ of time spent in Svitz, come to think of it, rolling down hills and reminiscing about romance and everything wrong with the world.

And yes, the man he’d met had been named Cecil, and he’d seemed perfectly normal at the time. Except that this had been about four decades before a particular meeting in a church with a particular angel.

That other meeting had been in 1941.

Cecil looks maybe ten or fifteen years older than he was then, and Crowley knows that’s not normal for humans. Not even ones that dabble in the occult.

“Um,” Crowley says intelligently, “yeah! ‘Course I remember you. It’s been a long time. You have any idea how long it’s been?”

Cecil pauses briefly, then continues, “You know, I couldn’t remember your name for the _ longest _ time, but it was Crowley, right? Anthony J. Crowley?”

Crowley nods, although behind his glasses his eyes are beginning to narrow.

Does Cecil _ know _ that they’d met nearly a century ago? Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe there’s something strange going on with time in this town. Or maybe he’s not human, and this is normal for him. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk about it.

Whatever it is, Crowley decides it may be time to resort to something he’d gotten a commendation for downstairs: small talk.

“How are you these days?” Crowley asks. “New job?”

Cecil grins. “Well, it’s not _ new _ exactly, I took over for Leonard about…” 

He hesitates, and his grin visibly lessens.

“A while ago,” Cecil continues after a slightly too-long pause. “But—hang on, let me find a good picture real quick…”

He pulls a phone out of his jacket pocket, unlocks it, and begins scrolling. Crowley glances towards the open door of what he assumes is Cecil’s studio.

“You don’t have to get back on air?”

Cecil waves a hand dismissively. “I’ve got time. Amazon Prime sponsored our show today, and fortunately for us they tend to take forever, occasionally in a literal sense. Anyway!” He clears his throat, and turns his phone screen so that Crowley can see. 

The picture there is of a man, fast asleep on the couch, wearing a rumpled lab coat over well-fitting jeans and a shirt emblazoned with the design of a cartoonish lightbulb and the words ‘turn down for watt.’ His skin is dark, and his hair is perfect. 

He’s also thoroughly not Crowley’s type, but that doesn’t stop him from remarking, “Nice hair.”

“I _ know! _ His hair is _ perfect. _ He’s not perfect, but he’s perfectly imperfect. He’s amazing.” Cecil clears his throat and clarifies, “That’s Carlos. He’s my husband and I love him _ so _ much.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, and tries not to think about Aziraphale as Cecil continues to gush about his husband.


	5. The Home of Josefina Ortiz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Josie is dying. And the only way to save her would be to make her one of us.”_
> 
> _Aziraphale might be missing something here. And he might not be. If he’s not, if he heard Erika correctly… then his assistance might not be needed at all._
> 
> _He blinks once, twice, and says, “Pardon? You can do that?”_

“I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says at last, “that there is very little I can do to help here.”

Erika in the NVCR shirt sighs sadly. Erika in the waistcoat and nothing else shakes his head to himself, and doesn’t look at anyone else in the group. At least two Erikas hug each other and start sobbing.

Until now, Aziraphale has been very focused on the task at hand. But, upon coming to a recent realization that any efforts may be futile, he sits back, and comes to a different, more surprising realization.

Every single angel here named Erika (which is to say, every angel here save Aziraphale) has their wings out. Which explains why the room is so cramped, come to think of it, but in Aziraphale’s defense this isn’t exactly the norm.

“You can keep your wings out,” Erika (pale, freckled, red hair) says, and he isn’t entirely certain they didn’t read his mind, although he also isn’t entirely certain how they would go about doing that. “We do.”

“And nobody acknowledges our existence,” waistcoat Erika points out.

“Josie does.”

“Josie is  _ dying. _ And the only way to save her would be to make her one of us.”

Aziraphale might be missing something here. And he might not be. If he’s not, if he heard Erika correctly… then his assistance might not be needed at all.

He blinks once, twice, and says, “Pardon? You can do that?”

Erika (dark skin, light eyes) nods. “So can our counterpart…”

“Downstairs?”

“Legion, Eric, we’ve heard them called just ‘disposable demon’ a couple of times. They, and we, have… always been able to convert mortals to our ranks. Also plants, animals, and outdated electronics.”

“I’m new,” Erika-with-the-radio-shirt offers. “So is Erika.”

Waistcoat Erika waves.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “That’s… convenient.”

He can think of a few humans he would have wanted to save, had he been given the chance. Quite a few.

“Minus the fact that we don’t legally exist,” Erika (tattoo of a tiger lily on his cheek) points out. “Technically speaking, neither do you.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says, nodding. Then what Erika said sinks in. “Wait. Excuse me,  _ what? _ ”


	6. Night Vale Community Radio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Legally speaking, angels don’t exist, and that was the angel acknowledgment siren you just set off,” Cecil says. “From one friend to another…”_
> 
> _He clasps his hands together, sets them in his lap, and smiles disarmingly._
> 
> _“Tell me about it. Talking about your emotions to a trusted friend often helps when dealing with them, and I’d like to think I qualify as at least the second category. We did spend quite a while together in Svitz.”_

“Angels don’t  _ exist???” _ Crowley shakes his head emphatically. “Of bloody  _ course _ they do. M’all bloody tangled up with one.”

A siren goes off somewhere nearby. Cecil glances up briefly, then audibly sighs, and presses a button on his headset.

“Intern Kareem, how much longer do I have before our sponsored advertisement is over?”

The answer is apparently either satisfactory or not enough of an issue to change Cecil’s plans. Cecil nods to himself, slips his headset off, and looks Crowley in the eyes.

“Legally speaking, angels don’t exist, and that was the angel acknowledgment siren you just set off,” Cecil says. “From one friend to another…”

He clasps his hands together, sets them in his lap, and smiles disarmingly.

“Tell me about it. Talking about your emotions to a trusted friend often helps when dealing with them, and I’d like to think I qualify as at least the second category. We did spend quite a while together in Svitz.”

He’s right. He’s right, and he knows it, and Crowley hates the fact that he knows it because he really, really doesn’t want to talk about this. On the other hand, this is Night Vale, the town that everyone downstairs claims responsibility for and nobody downstairs can actually  _ find. _

And honestly? From what he recalls of Cecil, he might just understand. Or at least take this in stride, considering that he’s the community radio host of  _ Night Vale. _

“Do you want the cliff notes or the whole story?”

Cecil shrugs.

“Well, for starters: angels do exist. I used to be one.” He spreads his hands dramatically, and pretends not to hear the siren that just went off again. “Now I’m a demon. Most angels are all stuffy and uptight. Most demons are… eeeeh, I don’t like them. Unimaginative and boring. But y’see, y’see there’s this one angel, and he’s not like the others. He tries to be. He’s not. His name’s…”

“Erika?”

Crowley hesitates briefly, shrugs, and says, “Aziraphale.”

“Old Woman Josie said that all angels were named Erika, with a K. They’re very insistent on that, apparently.”

“Nah, not all of them. Maybe your lot is. Could be like Legion, or Eric, or whatever they’re going by these days. But Aziraphale? He sort of… asked me for a favor. To get here, in Night Vale. Some friends of his needed a favor from him, and he needed to get here. And I’d always wanted to find this town, so… here I am.”

“And his friends turned out to be Erika,” Cecil guesses, and receives a nod.

“Bingo. We have… a sort of Arrangement, where we help each other out when we’re in the area instead of actively thwarting each other. And we might be trying to stop Armageddon, and if that fucks up I’m going to have to fight him, and I can’t kill him, I don’t bloody want to fight him and deep down, I don’t think he does either.”

“Hm.” 

Cecil sounds surprisingly understanding for someone who can’t possibly understand most of this. He strokes his chin apprehensively, and thinks.

“That doesn’t seem like the problem at hand right now,” Cecil adds after a moment, and Crowley groans.

“So maybe I dropped him off in front of the house and told him he could find his own way home,” Crowley says.

“Oh.  _ Dear. _ ”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I can’t just… go back, y’know? I’m a demon. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“But you do want to go back and talk to him.”

Cecil gets a nod.

“Well,” he continues, “I might be able to help you with that. But, assuming your friend came here for the reason I believe he came here, I’ll need you to do your best to help him.”

Crowley’s brow furrows as he tries to recall the specifics of why Aziraphale had been so insistent on coming here. It had been something to do with an old woman who was dying, and…

Oh. Cecil knows her too. 

Angels can feel the positive emotions of others, such as love and contentment. And while Crowley would be surprised if Cecil was feeling none of those at the moment, he certainly can’t sense them, because he’s a demon. He can feel the other end of the spectrum, if he tries hard enough: depression, disappointment, the pain of stepping on a lego…

While the intense, horrible pain of stepping on a lego is perhaps one of the most negative emotions there is, it’s far from being the only one up there. Detachment is one of Crowley’s least favorites, and Cecil has it in spades. Even with a significant amount of detachment and denial, a deep underlying sadness is still rolling off him in waves.

It’s nearly enough to overwhelm Crowley. It probably  _ would _ overwhelm him if Cecil wasn’t up to his ears in denial as well.

“Take your time,” Cecil says, unaware of any of this, standing and patting him on the shoulder as he does. “I’ll finish up here, go to today’s forecast, and if you don’t mind sullying your demonic reputation just a bit more, we’ll have ourselves a plan.”


	7. The Home of Josefina Ortiz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We can’t do that,” Erika (white eyes) says slowly._
> 
> _“Neither can you,” Erika (tiger lily tattoo) adds. “Angels can’t do that.”_
> 
> _Aziraphale looks at the dying old woman. There is a substantial amount of love here, both for her and from her, and it’s with that in mind that he says, quite seriously, “If we continue with this, I need all of you to promise me something. Not a word of this to head office.”_

“I believe I’ll put my wings away again once we leave, with that in mind,” Aziraphale says. As of right now, he has them out, on the vocal insistence of Erika and Erika, with grudging agreement from Erika, Erika, and Erika, and very little dissent from the rest. “Do you walk around like this all the time?”

Honestly, Aziraphale could get used to that. You forget what it feels like to have your wings unfurled and not hidden from all until you do, and then it’s… difficult to put them back, to go back to hiding a part of who you are.

Erika shrugs, re-pins her name badge onto her shirt. “We already don’t exist, there’s no harm done, and I for one like having wings. Why not use them?”

“Because,” Erika mutters, still almost completely nude, “we _ don’t exist _ with them, because we’re _ angels. _”

“Nobody asked _ you _, Erika.”

“You literally just did.”

“Not you _ specifically! _”

An argument looks to be on the horizon between Erika and Erika, and the other Erikas look distinctly uncomfortable with this. Aziraphale opens his mouth to change the subject, but a hacking cough from the woman lying prone and unconscious on the bed—Josie herself, he presumes—shuts _ everyone _ up.

“She doesn’t have long,” Erika murmurs, and Aziraphale swears the tiger lily tattoo on his cheek rustles in an impalpable breeze.

“No,” Aziraphale agrees. “But we do seem to have a plan. How can I help?”

Erika blinks their amber eyes as they think, and they perhaps speak for all the Erikas when they say, “We can’t call her to become one of us without permission.”

“From her,” NVCR shirt Erika adds, a tad unnecessarily.

“And we can’t ask her permission.”

“Not unless she wakes up.”

“And she’s not going to wake up. We should have asked her sooner.”

“Well then, _ why didn’t we? _”

“There was never a good opportunity, Erika!”

“Yeah, and now we don’t _ have _ an opportunity!”

A tad awkwardly, Aziraphale clears his throat and tries not to feel like he’s intruding.

“Would it be possible,” he asks, “for someone else to relay permission to you? Perhaps, by entering her dreams and asking?”

All eyes go to him, even the milky-white ones of an Erika he suspects can still see perfectly well, just not with her eyes.

“We can’t do that,” Erika (white eyes) says slowly.

“Neither can you,” Erika (tiger lily tattoo) adds. “Angels can’t do that.”

Aziraphale looks at the dying old woman. There is a substantial amount of love here, both for her and from her, and it’s with that in mind that he says, quite seriously, “If we continue with this, I need all of you to promise me something. Not a word of this to head office.”

One by one, each and every Erika promises, and it’s like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Aziraphale straightens, takes a deep breath, and nods to himself.

“Demons can,” he says.

Erika (NVCR shirt) looks at him curiously. “You think Legion will help us?”

“Possibly, but I’m thinking of someone else. Who, I hope, is still in town and I haven’t driven off entirely. Is there a phone I can use?”


	8. Night Vale Community Radio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Call from: an unknown number,” the speaker says, turning down the ‘weather’ some before rattling off a phone number. Crowley doesn’t recognize it, but Cecil, leaning forward in his seat with interest, apparently does._
> 
> _“That’s Josie’s number,” Cecil observes. “Does your angel not have a cell phone?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the weather while you're reading.
> 
> You won't regret it.

“And now, dear listeners,” Cecil says over the speakers in the Bentley, “I take you to… the  [ _ weather. _ ](https://youtu.be/r3C62zN3P7Y) ”

The opening bars of a song Crowley doesn’t recognize play shortly, and as they do, Cecil himself emerges from the radio station, tapping out a text to someone as he slides into the passenger seat.

“If I’m not back by the time the weather is over,” Cecil says in way of explanation, “Intern Kareem knows to play it over again. I would give you directions, but you’ve already been to Josie’s home once I presume. Shall we?”

Crowley nods, and pulls out of the radio station parking lot, retracing his steps. Or perhaps, more accurately, retracing his driving, with someone who shouldn’t still be alive or at the very least shouldn’t look this close to the age he was in the seat Aziraphale normally takes up.

As if on cue, the phone rings.

“Call from: an unknown number,” the speaker says, turning down the ‘weather’ some before rattling off a phone number. Crowley doesn’t recognize it, but Cecil, leaning forward in his seat with interest, apparently does.

“That’s Josie’s number,” Cecil observes. “Does your angel not have a cell phone?”

The siren goes off. Cecil visibly winces. Crowley keeps one hand on the steering wheel, turns onto Main Street, and snaps his fingers.

The siren abruptly shuts off.

“It was getting annoying,” Crowley says in way of explanation.

Cecil nods, like this sort of thing is normal or at the very least not  _ less _ normal than what he deals with on a regular basis, and says, “You should answer him.”

“I guess,” Crowley says, like he wasn’t just angsting over this very person either twenty minutes or two hours ago, depending on how long segments of Cecil’s show actually are. 

He answers the call.

“Hey, angel,” he says to the air.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale replies, “I really do need your help. Are you still in Night Vale?”

“What do you think?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies instantly. 

In the passenger seat, Cecil clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle some very amused sounds that would otherwise be coming out. He earns a silently furious glare from Crowley.

“What do you want,” Crowley mutters, with a not entirely feigned annoyance, if not at Aziraphale.

“Come back, if it isn’t too much trouble? I’ve explained things to Erika. They won’t inform anyone of our… arrangement if you help us.”

“Yeah? What’s in it for me?”

Cecil punches him in the arm. Without taking his eyes off the road, and without otherwise dignifying him with a response, Crowley mouths  _ I have a reputation to uphold! _

Out of the corner of his eye as he turns onto Harrison, he sees Cecil mouth  _ you’re going to be there in a minute, _ and he’s right. He doesn't think he's ever met such a stubborn mortal, especially not after they know he's anything but the same as them.

“Fine,” he tells Aziraphale. “You owe me one.”

“Very well, but please hurry.”

Aziraphale hangs up. There’s a few, precious moments where just the ‘weather report’ is playing and Crowley can drive peacefully down the road at a nice leisurely sixty miles per hour. 

And then Cecil says, quite seriously, “That was the worst attempt at romance I have ever seen.”

Crowley answers with some extremely un-dignified sputtering. Fortunately for the sake of what little dignity he has left, someone or perhaps something else seems to have had enough of the ‘weather.’

Cecil stares pensively at the radio, and adds, “That is definitely  _ not _ today’s weather.”

“Who wants to live forever?” Freddie Mercury sings.

“My bad.” Crowley pats the steering wheel appreciatively.

The no-longer-weather increases in volume.


	9. The Home of Josefina Ortiz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hello, everyone,” the man says, and Aziraphale realizes he’s heard his voice somewhere before. Even if he can’t quite place where. “I brought someone to help Josie. Yes, I am acknowledging you, please do not smite my friend. His name’s Crowley.”_
> 
> _Crowley waves sheepishly._

Someone knocks on the door. Which is odd in itself, because Crowley wouldn’t knock, he’d stroll right in and make himself at home. But, Aziraphale thinks, it isn’t Josie’s daughter, because most of the Erikas look more intrigued than scared.

“You know Cecil?”

“We thought you were talking about a demon!”

“Who is Cecil?” Aziraphale asks slowly. 

Crowley  _ has _ used many pseudonyms through the ages, but to Aziraphale’s knowledge he’s never used that particular one. Then again, it’s not like he and Crowley saw each other frequently, until rather recently.

It’s in the midst of these thoughts that Erika (NVCR shirt) opens the door. A man who is not tall and not short with long white hair, dark skin, and a determined look on his face enters, followed closely by a particular demon Aziraphale would recognize anywhere.

“Hello, everyone,” the man says, and Aziraphale realizes he’s heard his voice somewhere before. Even if he can’t quite place where. “I brought someone to help Josie. Yes, I am acknowledging you, please do not smite my friend. His name’s Crowley.”

Crowley waves sheepishly.

“He’s a demon,” Erika (tiger lily tattoo) points out.

“Well, yes,” Erika (amber eyes) agrees, “but he  _ got _ to Night Vale, so there must be some reason for that.”

“Um, hello? I’m right here,” Crowley mutters. Perhaps a touch indignantly.

“Please, do  _ not _ smite my friend. I would really appreciate that.” The man Aziraphale presumes is Cecil looks across the room, directly at him. “Hello. You must be Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale has never, verbally, cursed. And he has no plans to. Things would have to get truly dire for that. However, if words were to be put to the look he’s currently giving Crowley, it would be something along the lines of  _ excuse me, what the fuck? _

“Yes,” Aziraphale says warily. He doesn’t get another word in edgewise.

“Good! I’d better be getting back, because  _ someone _ messed with the weather—” (He looks pointedly at Crowley, who looks the opposite of remorseful.) “—but before I do, just…”

Cecil shakes his head, and looks to Josie.

“Please save her,” he continues, in barely above a whisper. “She means a lot to me. She means a lot to this town.”

“I’ll do my best,” Aziraphale finds himself promising, despite his better judgment. 

Satisfied, Cecil heads out at a brisk walk, leaving behind several angels named Erika, one angel not named Erika, and a demon.

And, of course, the reason they are all here: one dying mortal woman named Josie Ortiz.

Aziraphale clears his throat awkwardly. “Right,” he says, looking to Crowley. “So... foul... fiend. I expect you know what to do?”

“I have no bloody idea,” Crowley replies, “and while I can’t really dispute the ‘fiend’ part of that statement, I’ll have you know I smell  _ great.” _

“He’s not  _ wrong, _ ” Erika (NVCR shirt, pointedly avoided looking at Cecil while he was here) points out.

Aziraphale supposes that saying something about keeping up appearances would defeat the entire purpose of keeping up appearances. And in any case, he  _ had _ made Erika promise that none of them would tell anyone else from Heaven about what happened here.

So, he drops the front, squares his shoulders, and repeats, “Right.” He takes a deep breath. “Crowley, can you transport us into her dream?”

Crowley blinks. “Depends what you mean by ‘us.’ Me, definitely. You and me, probably. Anyone else…” He doesn’t continue, but his meaning is clear.

“How about you, and one of us?” Erika asks. Aziraphale  _ swears _ his tattoo is moving again, except when he focuses on it, it’s not anymore.

“Not that we don’t trust you,” Erika adds, blinking milky eyes mildly, “but regardless of whether it was Aziraphale, Cecil, or both of them that recommended you, you  _ are _ a demon.”

“Actually, how  _ do _ you know Cecil?” Erika cuts in, their amber eyes full of suspicion. “I assume you met Aziraphale when he was thwarting you, but that doesn’t explain Cecil.”

“Old friend,” Crowley says with a wave of his hand, and poorly stifles a giggle at the idea of Aziraphale thwarting him. “And… could I? Possibly, but to take one of you with me would be to take all of you with me, and it would be thoroughly dangerous to everyone involved including Josie here. Best option is to either trust me to handle this—”

“No,” the Erikas chorus in unison. Aziraphale remains silent.

“—or, trust your man Aziraphale to keep me from royally screwing things up.”

Glances are exchanged, most of which do not involve Aziraphale or Crowley.

“You know what?” Erika shrugs. “Alright. Just, Aziraphale, come with us a moment.”

Even though she said  _ us _ , it’s only her that takes Aziraphale over to the side, and whispers some very specific instructions. Aziraphale nods, and they rejoin the group.

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand, snaps the fingers of his other, and the world falls out beneath them, only to give way to another. A desert on a moonless night, a desert that looks like the one Night Vale is in. A short distance away, a woman stands on the edge of a cliff.

Aziraphale is suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s 1) holding a demon’s hand and 2) holding  _ Crowley’s _ hand, and those two things should probably cancel each other out actually but quickly letting go and clearing his throat does nothing at all to help with the metaphorical butterflies in his stomach.

He ignores them, pointedly refuses to look at Crowley, and strides forward. As he does, he realizes that it’s not a cliff. Or, perhaps, not just a cliff would be a more accurate term.

It’s the edge of a canyon.

“Josie Ortiz?” He calls.

“Some friends of yours sent us,” Crowley adds from behind him.

Josie doesn’t turn to look at them. A wind picks up, rustling her silvery braids as it does.

“Erika, I assume,” she says, softly. “I know what you’re here to ask. My answer is yes.”

The ground begins to shake, Aziraphale with it, and yet Josie remains perfectly stationary. Perfectly stationary, and far too close to the edge.

Several things happen then, in rapid succession.

Aziraphale lunges forward in an attempt to pull her back out of harm’s way.

The edge collapses, falling forward into the ravine and taking Josie with it.

Aziraphale nearly falls too, but someone grabs him.

The same someone snaps his fingers, and they’re back in the bedroom of a dying woman.

And, perhaps most concerningly, said dying woman stops breathing.


	10. Tuesday, Third Day of the Rest of Their Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale puts down the phone, and puts his other hand over Crowley’s. And, for the first time in six thousand years, Crowley knows that he knows. Cecil might not have to intervene after all._
> 
> _Somewhere, a god known sometimes as Huntokar and sometimes as simply the Almighty smiles._

“When you said you had an idea,” Crowley remarks, “I didn’t think you meant coming back here.”

“You thought I was jealous?” Aziraphale asks, keeping a carefully neutral expression as Crowley’s own goes through the five stages of confusion.

“Of who?  _ Cecil? _ ” Crowley vigorously shakes his head. “Sure, I have a type, and it should be  _ pretty _ obvious at this point what it is, but really? Nah. He’s a good friend, and one who really shouldn’t still be alive, but you won’t catch me complaining. Also, he’s married.”

Aziraphale hums to himself in the passenger seat, for once not commenting on Crowley living up to the moniker of speed demon. 

“Yes,” he says, “I know very well what your type is.”

Crowley splutters indignantly, and is saved from further embarrassment by the radio switching on without either of them meaning for it to.

“An angel stopped by our studio during the break,” Cecil says to, among other listeners, one angel and one who is decidedly not an angel, thank you very much. “She declined to stay for an interview, but informed us that a pair of old friends would be returning to town later tonight. Also, that the world nearly ended last Saturday, but really, that’s just another Saturday.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “How does he—?”

Crowley shrugs.

“It was very good to see her again, listeners, and fellow members of a particular bowling team will be happy to hear that Erika will be joining us starting next season. Rejoining, in a sense.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Crowley looks at Aziraphale.

“It worked?” Crowley asks, a tad incredulous.

“Watch the road!” Aziraphale shouts. Crowley swerves to avoid someone waving semaphore flags.

“I’m sure, of course, that we all remember a time before angels legally existed, when Erika… assisted. Perhaps illegally, but the scores are already engraved in stone tablets and stored permanently in the Hall of Public Records, and I suspect that if anyone tries to change that a particular heist expert named Janice might have a hand in their removal. This, however, is not the same Erika, or the same angel.”

Cecil sighs. Aziraphale can hear him smiling through the microphone.

“Reunions, listeners, are strange things. Particularly when you thought they might never happen at all. Stay tuned next for another reunion, in which my wonderful husband Carlos and I will attempt to help two vaguely immortal beings make something of six thousand years of pining.”

Crowley’s cell phone buzzes.

“He texted you directions,” Aziraphale says, picking it up and glancing at the screen.

A week ago, Crowley would have said something along the lines of  _ oh, now you know what a text is? _ But that sort of thing was, perhaps, unnecessarily mean. Especially after everything they’ve been through.

Instead, he takes a hand off the steering wheel, and wordlessly puts it over Aziraphale’s.

_ I thought I lost you, _ he doesn’t say.

_ I’m glad we’re both still here, _ he doesn’t say.

_ I love you, _ he doesn’t say.

Aziraphale puts down the phone, and puts his other hand over Crowley’s. And, for the first time in six thousand years, Crowley knows that he knows. Cecil might not have to intervene after all.

Somewhere, a god known sometimes as Huntokar and sometimes as simply the Almighty smiles.

“Good night, Night Vale,” Cecil says on the radio. “Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a WRAP on this particular crossover! Probably not a wrap on this particular universe, but certainly for now since I don't exactly have any ideas for continuations. 
> 
> (Yet. As it turns out, Old Woman Josie's counterpart in Desert Bluffs apparently had/has a bunch of demons living with her so I guess we know where Legion is. Might cover that eventually.)
> 
> (Also, I would love to write out what happens with Aziraphale and Crowley once they actually take Cecil up on his offer. Could be really funny if they both pretended to be super oblivious... but that's a tale for another time.)
> 
> Big thanks to Bucky for obvious weather-related reasons, and to Lady for enabling my crossover habits. And to all of you! Thanks for reading, everyone! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Week 11 prompt of the Ineffable Outliers server: "The Gomens crew in America." I split it up into multiple chapters because I like attention. That, and this was getting a bit long for a oneshot.


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